


Monstrous Made

by Ealasaid



Series: Blood Moon [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Animal Abuse, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trust-building, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: When Joseph first learnt in training about the Army's idea to use Hematophages to restrain Lycanthropes, he thought it was a joke -- restrain Joseph from what?He doesn't question that anymore.[Joseph Blake is a werewolf on the Front.  Benjamin Richards is his vampire handler.]
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Lieutenant Richards
Series: Blood Moon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818862
Comments: 55
Kudos: 36





	1. March 19th - April 9th, 1916

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yonderlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderlight/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story serves as a stand-alone tale -- you don't need to have read Of Monsters, Moon, and Blood to understand this! However, after you finish here, you should totally go check that one out too *u*
> 
> Lycanthrope/Lyco/dog = Werewolf  
> Hematophage/Phage/leech = Vampire

_March 19, 1916_

Joseph feels it -- feels the pull of the moon. It makes his skin itch and his bones ache and he hates it.

"Come on then," Marlow says, unsympathetic as ever. "Are you ready or not?"

"Ready," Joseph grits out, feeling the tremors start. He crouches naked on the duckboards of the trench. All of the soldiers are used to seeing each other in every state of dress or undress, but he feels the eyes on him anyway -- they want to see what it looks like when a man becomes a beast. Joseph wishes he could prove them wrong. 

But he won't. That is why he is here after all. 

The last of twilight fades leaving the moon as the sole source of light when it rises. The beast takes over. 

He is ravenously hungry. There are noises -- rhythmic, resembling -- speech?-- but only the staying hand of his Person clenched suffocatingly in his ruff holds him back. He mustn't. He mustn't. He mustn't.

The whistle blows and _he must._

He leaps. He is free of the earth! The air combs through his fur and he feels the kiss of the moon as he surveys the ground before him. He sings -- is he alone this night? 

Other songs in the distance, but none that threaten him. He is too far from them. Instead, the night is alive with the sound of movement.

He smells fear, ammoniac and acrid. Instinct tells him to pursue --

\-- _pain._ Pain in his nose, he flinches away --

"Not them," he hears, the scathing fire in his nerves clearing his mind. "Go _that_ way."

He moves. The direction indicated does not involve pain. Ahead, there is movement. 

He deliberately does not think about it. He moves in pursuit. He chases; he hunts; he kills. There is blood and it tastes sweet, so salt-sweet on his tongue, and he wants more, and he --

\-- screaming --

\-- Person is being hurt --

\-- snarling --

~ * ~

_April 1st, 1916_

Upon Marlow's death, they need to find him a new Leash. Joseph does not look forward to it.

A Leash has one job: to restrain his Lyco partner. When Joseph first learnt about them in training, he thought it was a joke -- restrain Joseph from what? Joseph knew how humans viewed Lycanthropes -- as sub-human, in many ways -- but Joseph had never attacked or harmed anything but animals on moon nights and did not personally know any Lycanthropes who had. He couldn't imagine why the Army would come up with such a notion.

But Joseph also didn't anticipate being ordered to play the part of the slavering beast. Training taught Joseph just how easily -- and how competently -- he could assume that role. He didn't question the need for Leashes again, not even when the partnership between him and Marlow became a twisted sort of Pack.

(No matter how much they question him about Marlow's death, Joseph cannot answer to their satisfaction. It is because, at the time, he was nothing more than an animal, and therefore cannot reliably give testimony about the incident. --And Joseph does not want to answer thoroughly. He genuinely doesn't know how Marlow's life ended, but Joseph does know that he doesn't like how little he cares that his Leash -- a Pack member -- was killed.)

(Well. It's not like Marlow was much of a prize.)

\--But still, Joseph must have a new Leash. He's too dangerous without one.

"Blake," Sergeant Everard says when he finds the labour detail Joseph's currently working in. "Come on. They need you at Headquarters."

"What for, Sarge?" Joseph asks when they're away from the work party. He suspects he knows already.

Sergeant Everard tuts at the question. He's never been the friendliest man and he takes care to treat all of them with equal disdain, but Joseph has smelt true dislike on the man more than once when it becomes necessary for him to interact with Joseph. Still, it's a fair question, and the Sergeant answers.

"They've found you a new Leash," he says coolly. 

Joseph tries not to flinch. He doesn't want to be forced to accept a new Pack member. All Marlow did was serve as a reminder of what Joseph misses, every aching minute of every bloody day. Joseph can't imagine this new Leash being any better. 

All too soon, they are at the Battalion Headquarters. Apparently it's the Lieutenant-Colonel that has control of the Lyco-Leash pairings for the Battalion; or this one does, at any rate. Joseph salutes the man and stands at attention.

"Warrant Officer Richards," Colonel Mackenzie says coolly to the leech standing in the corner, completely ignoring Joseph, "this is Lance Corporal Blake. He is to be your Lyco."

"Charming," says the leech, blonde and death-pale. With an accent that posh and a rank several steps higher than usually granted to non-humans, there's no way Joseph's new Leash is one of those poorer Hematophages, rich only in their sense of their own racial superiority; this one has connections and, presumably, money.

He also looks fairly mature, more like some of the officers than most of the enlisted. Difficult to say how old he might really be, though -- everyone knew that Phages had the longest lifespans of the non-human species. This one could be 100 for all Joseph knew. 

Joseph doesn't let any sign of this evaluation cross his face. He remains at attention, as neither have acknowledged him in the slightest.

"I'm sure you are aware of your duties," Mackenzie drawls, managing to both sound and smell as though he does not give a shit. It is a talent common within the upper levels of the brass and similarly upper levels of the peerage. Joseph is under the impression that they practice it at comportment. "Go and do whatever it is you do, and get out of my Headquarters."

"Yes, Sir," says the leech, with no little sarcasm. 

"Dismissed," Mackenzie says with annoyance when Joseph doesn't budge. Joseph salutes and exits, as requested, stomach already roiling.

The leech follows. He's on Joseph's heels, actually, moving faster than Joseph's ever seen Marlow move in the daylight, and it's not a moment after they've left before he's saying, familiarly, "So. Care to tell me about yourself other than being 'Lance Corporal Blake'?"

It grates. Oh, how it grates. Pack is supposed to be family; Pack is supposed to be there. This forced Pack is -- it -- Joseph grinds his teeth on it. 

"No," he says. His stomach threatens to revolt at how wrong it is. Joseph swallows down on it as best he can; he doesn't want to go putting off his new Leash by vomiting all over the ground. "Not really."

"Well that's --" the leech sounds offended, at first, but his voice alters. "I -- are you alright?"

"Perfectly," Joseph says. He stops and turns and smiles widely. This is usually enough to discourage the men who are going to be absolute wankers.

The leech comes close, though, peering at Joseph's teeth. He taps at them. The shock jolts through Joseph's skull. "Nicely done," says the leech with mock appreciation. "Now, if you need to lose your stomach, why don't you aim for this?"

He points to the channel dug into the ground, to let rainwater flow beneath the duckboards. It's more than rainwater that flows, and Joseph fights how his gorge rises.

"I'd rather not," he says, fixedly.

"Your call," says the leech, and that is how Lance Corporal Joseph Blake meets Warrant Officer Benjamin Richards.

~ * ~

Benjamin watches the Lyco Lance Corporal stalk off after muttering about rejoining a work party. What an interesting fellow.

\--More to the point, what an absolute _mess._ What on earth has Benjamin gotten into? He could have stayed out of this whole conflict entirely, with Lord Aldridge's connections, but no -- Benjamin wanted to be a credit to his species and show the potential of Leash/Lyco partnerships. And then he gets out here and finds they have partnered him with a _child._

Oh, sure, Blake is 25, but Benjamin's done the math. Just as Benjamin's 46 years is the equivalent of 22 human ones in terms of proportionate lifespan, Blake's 25 only means that, were he human, he'd be 16. Christ. 

"He's the best Lyco this side of the Front, eh?" Benjamin asks aloud to the Major who steps out next to him.

Major Hepburn nods. "He has more kills to his credit than any other of ours," he says, just as Blake turns a corner and is out of sight. 

What an interesting way to phrase that. _"He_ has? What about his old Leash?" Benjamin inquires.

Hepburn clears his throat. "Ah, of course. My mistake," he says, voice carefully neutral in that way which indicates the mistake was deliberate. _"They_ have more kills to their credit than any others of ours."

Perfect. Benjamin's new partner is the best Lyco on the Front, not through excellent teamwork, but through sheer brutality. Which is odd, because he didn't strike Benjamin as a murderous berserker, not in the slightest -- more as . . . hmm. 

Benjamin mulls it over for nearly a minute. He can't quite put his finger on it. --Well, he will have time later, and since Hepburn is still here -- "What was his previous partner -- Marlow, was it? --What was he like?"

"I didn't know him personally," Hepburn admits. "But he never once let Blake at any of our men, so I suppose he was competent enough. You'd do better to ask the Lieutenant of their platoon -- your platoon as well, now -- Lieutenant Morshead."

It is a dismissal. "Thank you, Sir," Benjamin says formally.

"Not at all, lad," says Hepburn, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile. "Remember me to your step-father, would you?"

Benjamin did not come unprepared for this position. While he sets out to locate 9th Platoon, part of D Company, he sorts through what he knows now: 

First, it is clear that while his and Aldridge's proposal for a more mobile Leash/Lyco unit was accepted by High Command, it is equally clear that they aren't going to make it easy for him to succeed. Whether it is due to prejudice against Hematophages or Lycanthropes, or simply disinterest, Benjamin isn't going to be able to swan in and expect things to fall into place. This will take _work._

Second, it is clear to Benjamin that the key to success lies in Blake. The Lycanthrope was silent and politely attentive through that first meeting, but he was uncomfortable -- to the point of physical revulsion, apparently (and if that isn't a serious indicator of something, Benjamin will eat a baby) -- once it was the two of them. The Lyco has some sort of hang-up about their partnership, and it's not the kind of hang-up that Benjamin thinks will be resolved with merely giving him orders. But Benjamin cannot do this alone, and excellent Lyco or not, neither can Blake. They will just have to learn how to manage.

Third is that Benjamin is the best Phage for the job. He has the connections, he has the money, he has the rank, and, most importantly, he has the knowledge that will make this all possible. Benjamin thinks only a little wistfully of the training arena back home, where he first learnt to train horses; well, that understanding of working with an intelligent animal as big as or bigger than oneself will come in handy, now. Lycanthropes don't shift into horses, of course, but he did speak to the Shockleys about their experiences training hounds, and he has a bundle of notes in his things. Between the two of them, Benjamin is confident in his abilities.

At the moment, however, the question is less of what Benjamin can do, and more of what _Blake_ can do. What has he been trained to do already? Surely over the last year Marlow has done something with the Lyco. Not every full moon is an attack, after all.

Benjamin locates Lieutenant Morshead in his quarters without much difficulty. Though he appears to be taking the time in leisure, he cheerfully invites Benjamin into the little room he shares with someone else. In short order, Benjamin has introduced himself and explained his reason for bothering his new superior officer.

"Well I can't say that I can help you that much," Lieutenant Morshead admits, leaning back in his seat thoughtfully. "Marlow was a very quiet chap. You'd be better off asking Blake -- surely they spoke of it when he shifted back."

"I intend to ask him as well," Benjamin agrees, "but I thought you might know more as to the particulars of any of their training."

Morshead shakes his head. "On the nights when there wasn't an attack, they penned him up. So far as I know, Marlow never went in with him -- only stayed outside."

That . . . hm. That puts Hepburn's 'mistake' into a different light. Perhaps when he was speaking about Blake's success outside of Headquarters, he truly meant that it was Blake putting in all the effort. And if that is the case, it also makes Blake's reaction to getting a new Leash more understandable -- he can't have many positive associations if his last Leash wasn't really acting as a partner.

Well. Benjamin squares his shoulders as he leaves the Lieutenant's quarters. It seems it all comes down to Blake, then; Benjamin had best get started. Though there isn't a full moon for nearly two weeks and Benjamin cannot familiarize himself with the wolf, Benjamin can get to know the man himself.

~ * ~

_April 5th, 1916_

Over the next four days, Joseph comes to learn that Warrant Officer Benjamin Richards has absolutely no sense of personal space. Everywhere Joseph turns, there Richards is: coming by with a friendly smile and a question, or just a comment, or even (on one memorable occasion) a slice of actual pie -- _actual pie_ \-- that he blithely foisted off on Joseph before disappearing with some bollocks about writing letters.

Joseph is both unused to and uncomfortable with it. Marlow had gone out of his way to avoid Joseph if he could do so. It was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, without Marlow dogging him, monthly reminders that Joseph was not human only lasted for three nights; the rest of the time his fellow soldiers could see that Joseph cursed the same mud, ate the same slop, and shat the same shit. It might have taken several months, but Joseph can even claim to be on amicable terms with most of them. 

(On the other hand, Joseph had _Marlow_ as a Leash.)

Now, though, Joseph doesn't get a moment's peace. Moreover, this leech is nosy as all hell. He is perpetually pestering Joseph for information about himself, claiming he wants to cultivate a solid professional relationship. 

"Really," the leech says earnestly as he and Joseph pick their way to the rear of the line, along with the rest of the platoon. "If we want to be successful in our partnership, we need to get to know each other better."

Joseph bites his tongue on something highly unpleasant. He did just fine with Marlow's idea of a professional relationship, which is to say, complete avoidance. But Richards isn't Marlow, and the obligation of Joseph's position means he should give Richards a chance.

"What do you want to know?" Joseph asks as neutrally as he can manage. He's dreading having to say anything of substance. The less this leech knows about him, the better.

"How often do you actually have to pay a prostitute?"

Joseph chokes. So does Lance Corporal Farley and Private Kimberley, who are both within hearing distance.

"Sorry, what?" Joseph manages to get out incredulously, staring at the leech.

The leech _winks_ at him, all cheerful camaraderie. "With looks like those, I'd think they'd be paying _you,"_ Richards says. It is precisely the tone he _should_ take, which is to say, one that has been able to fully evaluate all circumstances: the humour of the platoon, Joseph's popularly-acknowledged good looks, and also, the availability of women to the audience. In short, it is hilarious. Joseph snorts out his laughter despite himself, along with Kimberley.

"You're right about that," Kimberley says freely. "He just looks sideways at the girls and they crowd him in the street."

Farley, meanwhile, sidles up to bump shoulders with Joseph. He's one of the men with whom Joseph gets along best; he's a harder sort, from the seedier side of Manchester, and he has spent more than his fair share of time in mixed company. Now, he snorts with an exaggerated eye-roll and chimes in with, "How should we know? He never invites us in for the negotiations."

Joseph sputters. "You are _terrible,"_ he complains, feeling himself relax further at the reminder that even if his Pack is far away, he's got something at least a little bit like it, here. 

"Blake, with those blue peepers?" Kimberley demands. "I know three different girls who are set on you returning to the Gallery. I've had two of them complain I'm not you, even if you are a dog!"

Farley makes an indignant noise and cuffs roughly at Kimberley. "What are you, stupid? After him, they'd charge you extra!"

Joseph feels himself flushing. It's -- this isn't something he's particularly -- he's only _twenty-five._ He knows humans mature younger, but _still_ \-- and anyway, once the French girls knew what the white circle on his uniform meant, he wasn't as welcome. Joseph bites his tongue and hopes Farley and Kimberley will get into it enough that it'll distract the leech.

No such luck. "How about profession?" Richards asks, sidestepping the bickering for more direct inquiry. "What did you do before the war?"

"My -- we own a farm," Joseph says, grateful to be on less fraught ground. 

"Oh? What crops?"

It's not the right way to ask that, but it's harmless. And he's showing he's interested, and willing to listen -- so Joseph is willing to disregard this and extend his courtesy. "A bit of everything," he says. "We have a cherry orchard, though. It's not entirely practical, but the orchard's been established for some time."

"I tried cherries once," Richards says thoughtfully. "The flavour was nice." He pauses. "Couldn't keep them down, though."

Joseph snorts. "They can't have been too sweet for you," he jokes.

Richards practically beams. "Not at all," he says cheerfully. "It just wasn't the right shade of red."

There's a brief pause while the humans parse that. Joseph has to struggle to keep from snickering and does not entirely succeed -- he found it funny, even if they didn't. 

But after an incredulous _did he really just say that?_ look, both Farley and Kimberley guffaw. Farley slaps Richards on the back. "You've got the right attitude, Richards," he says approvingly. "You'll fit right in."

In no time at all, Richards has fitted himself seamlessly with the three of them. He's very entertaining, regaling them with tales of his time breeding and training horses for Lord Aldridge whilst also bedding and bleeding approximately half of the maids. It is absolutely hysterical and the lot of them are wheezing with laughter before long.

"Well here, now, tell us," Joseph says after a while, much more at ease despite the oddness of having a friendly Leash for company. Joseph eyes the unfamiliar officer's insignia on Richards's uniform, above the red triangle patch denoting his Leash status. "You're a Warrant Officer, aren't you? How'd you wind up with that rank?"

"Yeah," says Lance Corporal Farley. He fights like a street brawler and his conversational style matches that. "Leeches and Lycos can't get higher than Sergeant. And what is a Warrant Officer, anyhow?"

"Well, it's -- oh, it's non-commissioned, obviously, but it just means I have a warrant from the King that I have authority when it comes to certain matters." Richards pauses thoughtfully. "In this case, it's mostly just for Blake's well-being," he finishes, a touch apologetic. He seems to anticipate having set Joseph up as a target for more ribbing. 

Joseph is surprised, himself, when Kimberley and Farley fall quiet at that and exchange looks rather than take the opportunity to jest at his expense.

"I suppose it's all those French girls," Joseph ventures, desperately, as the silence drags and Richards starts to frown at the unexpected reaction. "I'm a public menace."

It breaks the awkward pause. Farley snickers at that; Kimberley joins in. The frown on Richards's face smooths away. The moment passes by and Joseph does not know why he feels so relieved at that, but he does.

~ * ~

_April 9th, 1916_

It's not as though the weather is particularly fine, here in France, but there is still more sun than is comfortable for a Hematophage. So when he has the opportunity to duck into 9th Platoon's billet, Benjamin takes it; he's been meaning to write his step-father, anyway. 

_Lord Aldridge,_ he begins, on some of the nicer stationary he brought with him from home, and adds the date in the upper corner. _I hope this letter finds you in good health and your usual high spirits!_

_I am now fully settled into my official placement here on the Front. When last I wrote to you, I had yet to meet my partner in my new position. He is a Lance Corporal named Joseph Blake._

Benjamin takes a moment to think. What can he write? He's already avoided writing any particulars of Blake's Lyco status; it would immediately be censored, no doubt, as anything involving those two most powerful types of soldiers or their movements were guarded fiercely. Well, it isn't as though he has met his Lyco as a wolf, yet, so he needn't report on that.

 _He is a charming young man, if a bit shy around me. I assume it is due to the challenge of becoming accustomed to a new partner; it is a challenge we are both overcoming rapidly._ Benjamin pauses a moment to remember how much Blake has warmed up to him. He feels a flash of pride that Blake no longer startles every time Benjamin appears, but rather greets him as warmly as he does anyone else -- excellent progress indeed! 

_He is well-liked by many of the men in his platoon,_ Benjamin scribbles next, _though he often seems not to notice it. Still, he is a strong worker and unfailingly polite._ Alright, that last wasn't quite true. However, no one is unfailingly polite in the Army; it is the nature of their work that they shall be driven to their limit. Within that context, Blake's poise is admirable -- he could have chosen to vomit all over Benjamin that first introduction, for example, instead of excusing himself. 

Now -- should he mention the difficulties in ascertaining the extent of the Lyco's training? Hmm. Best not. And anyway, Benjamin will know more soon enough. Still, Aldridge will wish to know the progress Benjamin is making, fulfilling the promises of their mobile unit proposal to Army Command.

 _Our first opportunity to work together is coming up soon; I have high hopes I will become better acquainted with him then, and have no doubt that should things continue to progress as they have already, we shall be doing excellent work in no time at all._ There -- Benjamin's assessment of his and Blake's prospective future, with the next full moon. Once Benjamin knows the sort of wolf he is to handle, he will have a better idea how effective they will be in combat. 

_The others of the platoon are all well enough. There are some characters, but none who really stand out,_ he finishes. There; that's the platoon sorted. What else? He thinks for a moment.

_There isn't much else to write about here. I did meet a Major Hepburn -- Adrian, I believe his name was? -- who wished me to remember him to you. He was a polite man and very helpful to me when I was first introduced to the unit._

_How are things at home? How is the family? I hope the horses are all doing well, and that the breeding season has gone without a hitch. I know it is a month before we can expect any of this year's foals, but I look forward to hearing all about them when it starts._

\--There. That should cover everything. Benjamin signs it with a flourish and addresses it for his home, feeling oddly satisfied -- as though completing the letter was all he needed to assure his success out here on the front. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Happy to see you allllllllllll~ Welcome to the "Joseph Blake & Benjamin Richards Friendship Origin Story"! HUGE thanks to @yonderlight -- you lovely human being, sharing your vampire/werewolf AU ideas with us all *u* Thank you for letting me play with [your world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555416/chapters/56507941)!
> 
> The next chapter should be up within a week! I'm currently sort of . . . twiddling my thumbs, I'll admit, now that _[between the crosses](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289)_ is more or less complete; I have NO idea what sort of update schedule I'll have for this fic. I am not sure how long this will be! Right now I'm thinking it's just going to be 4 parts, but we shall have to see!
> 
> I hope July is going well for all of you <3


	2. April 13th - 16th, 1916

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lycanthrope/Lyco/dog = werewolf  
> Hematophage/Phage/leech = vampire  
> moon night = night of the full moon (L.)

_ April 13th, 1916 _

"Mail's here!" one of the men calls, and there's a scramble towards the soldier standing with a sack on one shoulder. Joseph is among them, as eager as anyone else -- it's nice, like this, when they are all united in longing for a glimpse of home.

This time, he has mail. Mum sends him a letter and Tom's letter is bundled with hers. Joseph nearly cries when he reads who they're from, but wrests his expression under control and puts it out as extra boisterousness that is reciprocated by the others who have received something. It also covers how he slips the letters unread into the pocket inside his tunic so he can read them when he's got more privacy.

"Not going to read them right now?" Richards asks with interest from behind him.

Joseph does  _ not _ jump. He does  _ not. _ At most, he startles. 

He turns around sharply. "Is it any of your business?" Joseph asks, feeling cornered.

The leech blinks disarmingly. Joseph is well aware of how bloody charming Richards is by now -- he has managed to ingratiate himself thoroughly with the rest of the platoon (and Joseph, though he won't admit as much right  _ now). _ Hell, the men are ignoring them both at the moment -- giving them what passes for courtesy in these conditions. 

"Is it really any fault of mine that I want to get to know my partner better?" Joseph's Leash asks.

Joseph laughs at him. "Is that what you think this is?" he asks in return, bitterness heavy on his tongue when the proof of how ridiculous such a statement is rests safe in his pocket. "You're my  _ Leash." You're here to keep me  _ restrained. 

Joseph doesn't say that, though. He just takes the leech's look of offense  _ (hurt) _ and uses it to paper the walls of his chest so that he doesn't bleed out from it all -- not yet. And when Private Blythe (clumsy bastard) manages to trip three other members of the platoon, including Richards, Joseph takes the out and slinks off where he knows he won't be disturbed.

There, he sits and indulges for a while. He spends what feels like an hour just holding the paper to his nose and breathing it in once he opens the envelopes. Mum and Tom's scents are faint on the outside from all the handling, but the letters inside are almost like seeing them in person. Joseph aches, something broken and gaping in his chest making his eyes water and his breath hitch horribly. 

_ My dearest son, _ his mother writes,

_ I hope you are doing alright on the Front. I was just thinking the other day about how proud I was of you to volunteer to join the Army. I know you are doing good work in France. _

(Joseph is not doing good work. He has to consciously refrain from shredding the letter -- taking a deep breath, he carefully smooths the wrinkles out of the paper before continuing to read.)

_ I miss having you at home. The cherry trees in the orchard are threatening a fine harvest already; they are bursting with buds and new leaves. Tom swears he will spend an entire moon night rolling in the petals, and I do think he intends to keep that promise! I believe his current plan is to hide some bones in the orchard. _

_ I hope you will write back soon. How are things in France? Has Spring started to show its coming, yet? _

_ We miss you, dreadfully, and love you.  _

_ Your mother. _

Joseph sets this letter aside with a last deep inhale. It hurts. It's obvious that she hasn't written anything of importance; if Mum has kept to their usual schedule, their two cows should be calving if they haven't already. He knows she doesn't want to worry him -- it's why he doesn't write about the truth of what he sees and does out here -- but Joseph craves some semblance of normalcy, something to remind him that he was once something other than a monster.

Joseph stews for only a moment though; Tom's written to him as well. Despite himself, Joseph's heart lifts at his brother's scent.

_ Dear Joe, _ Tom writes. Already Joseph can see the splotches and scribblings that mark it as someone whose penmanship ought to be better, but isn't, for want of decent practice. He has to restrain himself from sighing out exasperated corrections to empty air.

_ I miss you! When are you coming home? Moon nights are not the same without you here. It's strange going hunting without you here to lead and Mum gets annoyed with me if I try to explore too much. _

_ Sorry. Mum says I'm not to write anything sad, so I'll try not to. But if you get the chance, can you apply for leave home? I  _ really  _ miss you. _

There's a little doodle of -- Joseph doesn't even know what that is, it just looks silly. He laughs even as the outline of it wavers and becomes difficult to make out.

_ It's me and Myrtle, see? _ Tom has written beneath it.  _ We're waiting for you! _

_ Love, _

_ Tom. _

Joseph regrets answering the call to volunteer when they first put it out in early 1915. He knows now that it would not have made much of a difference -- that call to volunteer was replaced by conscription for all the non-human males of Britain only three months later -- but he would have had those three months at home, where Joseph ought to be. Where Joseph wants to be. Where Joseph needs to be, because it hurts so much to be trapped here, so far from his Pack.

So caught up in his misery is he that Joseph fails to notice that he is no longer alone. "Blake!" Sergeant Everard says, shockingly sudden to Joseph's ears. He startles badly. "What're you doing here, eh? There's a work detail you should be on, shouldn't you?"

"Sorry Sarge," Joseph says, scrambling to manage the shock and his misery both at once. He hurriedly folds up the letters, stuffs them into the envelope, and shoves that into his breast-pocket. "Mail came. Sorry."

"Well, what's the mail got to do with it? Come on, get up."

"Sergeant Everard!" another voice interrupts cheerily. Joseph dearly wants to cry, or swear, or both; it's Richards again. Just when this couldn't get any worse! "Ah, Corporal Blake! Excellent, I was looking for you. Sorry Sergeant, you'll have to pardon us."

"Is that so?" Sergeant Everard says, and Joseph doesn't have to be looking at him to know the man's eyes are flashing dangerously -- he's seen the expression the Sarge makes when he uses  _ that _ tone of voice. "I'm afraid Blake was just going to get himself over to the labour detail 9th Platoon is heading --"

"I'm truly sorry, Sergeant Everard," Richards says. His voice has changed, too: his crisp upper-class accent is more pronounced, and he subtly emphasizes Everard's rank. That's right -- Richards's own position as Warrant Officer does, bizarrely, outrank a Sergeant. "This is a Leash/Lyco matter. I'm afraid it takes precedence."

Everard grinds his teeth. "I see," he says after a moment. "Carry on, then." 

Richards waits until Everard is out of hearing before he quietly asks, "Are you alright, then?"

It is not what Joseph was expecting. He looks at Richards and sees and scents nothing but sincere concern, and suddenly, it is hard to breathe. Joseph looks at the ground and wipes at his eyes, which seem to be leaking again. "Fine, Sir," he says.

Richards tuts. "Well come on, then, let's find you a quieter spot. Those letters are from home, right? Do you still need privacy to read them?" 

Joseph sucks in a great breath and pulls himself together. "No," he says, and wills his voice to firm up. "No -- no, I've read them already."

"Then we'll get you something to eat," Richards says briskly, and throws an arm over Joseph's shoulders. It is an iron grip and oddly comforting -- Joseph finds himself relaxing and going along with Richards's not-so-subtle steering. "It's well past lunch at this point and I've never known a soldier who wasn't hungry!"

They walk. Joseph takes the time to work at regaining some of his composure and succeeds after a few minutes. 

Richards sees to it that Joseph gets some food from the kitchen staff, ushering him through the process with minimum fuss. Joseph could swear he knew that Leashes had that much authority on their own, at least -- they could always approach kitchen staff for meals on behalf of their Lycos -- but it wasn't as though Marlow had ever bothered, and Joseph guesses he had just forgotten after a while. 

Richards stays with Joseph all through the meal, offering gossip about various members of the platoon and the company for entertainment as Joseph works through the truly gigantic portion Richards managed to cajole out of the kitchen workers. By the end of it, Joseph is feeling in much better spirits.

\--And guilty. He treated Richards abominably earlier, and now here Richards is, doing exactly what a good Pack member ought to do in seeing that Joseph gets something to eat. 

"Sorry about earlier," Joseph says the next time Richards pauses for breath. He was probably ready to launch into another story, but he doesn't need to; Joseph is as calm as he can get out here in the trenches. "I -- haven't any excuse for treating you like that."

Richards has become carefully neutral, his expression one of polite interest. Joseph isn't sure how to read it -- he isn't picking up any strong scent markers either that would indicate any particular emotions one way or another. "Not at all," his Leash says. "I got the sense I surprised you rather badly. I hadn't realised you were unaware of my presence."

"What? Oh, I suppose." Joseph hadn't considered that. --And now he regrets saying that out loud, too, seeing how Richards raises an eyebrow at it. It would have made the perfect excuse.

"Well, in lieu of an apology, why don't you tell me what upset you so much?" Richards asks, utterly predictably. His tone turns into a persuasive one. "At least then the next time, I can steer clear of it, hmm?"

Joseph toys with his spoon for a moment. He doesn't really know what set him off, to tell the truth, apart from the knot of discomfort in reconciling Richards's position with Joseph's own sense of Pack. 

Maybe he should start with that. It isn't as though it is a secret -- Joseph is actually somewhat surprised that Richards has no concept of Pack; Joseph would have thought it would be included in training by now. Well -- if he hasn't heard of it, Richards  _ should _ know. 

Richards clears his throat. "I mean, unless you'd rather not," he says, leaving it open. Giving Joseph a choice.

Joseph frowns. "I don't know how to explain," he says, haltingly. "It's -- reminders of my Pack --" he fumbles for the right words. "It hurts," he ends, and swallows hard. "It's my family. If I'm hunting, I should be with them, but -- I'm not."

Richards hums in acknowledgement. He's relaxed, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed casually. "We phages always hunt alone," he offers. "Do Lycos always hunt together?"

"Yes," Joseph says. "It's Pack. Only a -- a mad wolf hunts alone."

Richards frowns. "Then why hasn't Command set it up differently?" he asks. "If you hunt in packs --"

"Not  _ in _ packs," Joseph interrupts. "We hunt with  _ our _ Pack."

Richards's frown deepens. "What's the difference?"

Joseph can't help the frustrated sound he makes. How does one explain this? He'd certainly never gotten this far with Marlow, and he'd never bothered telling anyone else. "Our Pack is family," Joseph says after a moment of thinking. "We -- guard each other, keep each other safe. We make sure everyone has somewhere to -- to be. We feed each other -- we ensure everyone gets enough to eat." He looks at the empty mess tin in front of him, and then away, quickly. 

Richards, mercifully, doesn't comment on it. He just clears his throat and says, "I can't believe they didn't teach us any of this in training. You'd think this would be important enough information to include."

Joseph shrugs, uncomfortable at the thought of training. "Well, anyway," he says. "Being reminded that I'm out here without them -- it's hard is all." It sounds silly -- homesickness is universal out here. Joseph isn't alone in his misery. "So I apologise for reacting that way."

Richards tuts. "Didn't I just say that I'd accept an explanation in lieu of an apology?" he asks, mock-serious. "Apology not accepted."

Joseph laughs. It cracks a little in the middle but nothing worse comes of it. "Fine then," he says. "There's your explanation."

His Leash grins back at Joseph. "Explanation accepted," Richards says cheerfully, and that is the end of the matter.

~ * ~

Leaving Blake to join an evening work party in greatly raised spirits, Benjamin goes back to the dugout, feeling thoughtful.

What a revelation, that Lycanthropes had their own culture! Benjamin supposes he of all people should have expected it, but the thought honestly hadn't occurred to him. What is most relieving is that it explains so much. So far, the oddest part of being out here at war is how  _ personal _ everything seems, the  _ emotion _ of everyone. For example -- it is frankly shocking how swiftly 9th Platoon has accepted his presence. Benjamin suspects now that Blake had a great deal to do with it -- the Lyco is well-liked despite his own apparent misgivings, and what Blake likes, the platoon likes. 

But Benjamin can't say he is surprised. Blake is so plainly earnest, honest, and bloody loyal that it is no wonder he is accepted by his comrades despite being a Lyco. Benjamin only wishes Blake had a better sense of self-preservation -- it's not even been two weeks and already the man is giving Benjamin enough information that, should Benjamin wish, he could turn it against Blake with crippling consequences.

That information about Pack, for example. Utterly useless on its own, of course, but -- combined with what Benjamin witnessed just today? Blake's defensiveness over bloody  _ letters _ \-- finding some spot to lair in whilst he sat there and sniffed them like an animal -- the way reading them cut him to pieces. If Grandfather had seen, he doubtless would have sneered like the preening speciest he was and proclaimed that Blake was the perfect example of the lowest form of every non-Hematophage being. At least humans had some worth as sustenance, after all. Lycos had longer lifespans, and what did they do with that extra time? Nothing. 

\--Or so Grandfather would say. Benjamin never did put much stock in him after Benjamin met his sire. Blake is a good man who seems to have been ill-treated, even if not intentionally.

Oh, Benjamin is capable of putting it all together well enough. A Lyco's "Pack" is supposed to hunt with each other, are they not? Moreover, they are supposed to provide. Safety and security, shelter, sustenance -- all of these are signs to another Lyco that one is trustworthy, on the level of family if Benjamin is reading what Blake told him correctly. It's bloody good luck that Benjamin has been doing a lot of those things already, even if he hadn't necessarily intended it -- clearly it is affecting Blake, that his Leash is making the necessary overtures.

_ And if Blake hasn't had the benefit of his Pack in -- it must be a year at this point -- how vulnerable he must be, _ a quiet little voice says in the back of his head.

Benjamin shakes himself. No. No, that is a dishonourable thing to do. He is not that kind of person to manipulate in that way when this partnership is made in good faith. All Benjamin wants is to succeed, and if succeeding means ensuring Blake eats and making sure the Sergeant doesn't bully him -- which is what Benjamin always intended to do, anyway -- then all the better for Benjamin.

But it is probably good to make doubly-certain of this. It is hard to believe that Army Command is so bloody incompetent, not even bothering to include  _ anything _ about Lyco culture in training -- Benjamin is, frankly, astounded at how  _ idiotic _ such a thing is, the  _ sheer amount _ of cock-ups that could ensue from cultural misunderstandings -- but. Then again, he knows all too well how hard he and Lord Aldridge had to fight to get him this position, chipping away at Command's speciest prejudices.

Benjamin shoves his growing irritation aside -- there's nothing he can do about that  _ now. _ But perhaps Mother has some knowledge or knows someone who has connections -- Benjamin is wondering if there's more to being part of a Pack that he should know about. He can at least write to her and find out. 

~ * ~

_ April 16th, 1916 _

Joseph wakes with the burgeoning anxiety that tonight will be horrible. He refuses to dwell on why.

Instead, he spends as much of the day as he can keeping himself busy. They're in a new sector, marched out here only two days ago, so there's plenty of work to be found in freshening up trenches, repairing dugouts, digging latrines. He volunteers for a labour detail nearly as soon as he wakes because that will keep his mind occupied while he and other men make up terrible jokes and swap old, familiar stories. It makes him feel human.

By the late afternoon, though, there's no escaping it. Tonight will be the first moon night of the month. It will be the first moon night with Joseph's new Leash. 

~ * ~

Benjamin pokes his head in the dugout -- no luck. He's been looking much of the day and he still hasn't managed to find Blake. What has gotten  _ into _ the Lyco? It's only the first full moon they're both scheduled to hunt, after all. Benjamin is looking forward to it --  _ finally, _ he will know what kind of wolf he is to work with.

"Looking for something?" Kimberley asks, noticing him.

"Blake," Benjamin says with a shrug. "I've been looking for him all day but I can't seem to find him. Do you know where he went after that labour detail he volunteered for?"

Kimberley shakes his head. "He's probably off fasting," he says, apologetically. "You know him -- he likes finding a quiet spot for that sort of thing before he shifts."

"Private, hmm?" Benjamin can probably figure out where Blake is, then -- there are only so many spots that fit that criteria in camp. "Right. Thanks, Kimberley."

Fasting, eh? --that reminds him that he hasn't eaten since he woke this morning. Benjamin needs to eat -- the night will undoubtedly be long, and the Phage's mess for the Brigade isn't far from here. Benjamin dithers a moment, before deciding that yes -- eating first is the wisest course of action. He desperately does need to speak to Blake, but if worst comes to worst, they can speak in the morning.

He hums to himself as he leaves the dugout and heads for the mess. There was that fellow with the mustache who went down very nicely -- hopefully the other Phages in the Brigade haven't poached him, yet. And if only that one Hun didn't look so much like Blake -- Benjamin hasn't had a problem with feeding from him before now, but after the last few days, actually feeding from someone that reminds Benjamin of his partner strikes him as -- not quite correct.

And isn't that odd to even contemplate. Benjamin is aware that his upbringing leaves much to be desired by Hematophage society standards. Never is he more mindful of this than when he is reminded that he has learnt empathy so thoroughly his diet is affected. Well, no matter -- it's only one prisoner of war whom he can't eat at the moment, anyway.

"Oi, Richards!" someone calls from behind him. Benjamin startles out of his thoughts and pauses, turning to see who it is.

There are several people Benjamin might expect to seek him out: Everard, perhaps, to order Benjamin into doing something inane and/or degrading; Lieutenant Morshead, to address complaints about Benjamin from the Sergeant, whereupon Benjamin could clarify his authority over all matters pertaining to Blake; or possibly even Blake, coming by to pass the time for a while beyond when Benjamin seeks him out himself -- absolutely. In any case, it isn't any of those people coming to vie for Benjamin's time this late in the afternoon: it is rough-tongued Lance Corporal Farley from 9th Platoon, looking mean (as usual) and ready for a fight (also as usual). 

"Oi," Farley says in lieu of an appropriate greeting as Benjamin waits for him to catch up. "Did you mean what you said the other day?"

"I've said a lot of things," Benjamin says dryly, and starts walking again. Farley matches his pace. "You'll need to be more specific."

"About Blake," Farley says bluntly. "How you're supposed to be looking after his welfare."

"Oh," Benjamin says, instantly intrigued. It wasn't really the other day, that was a conversation from a week or so ago, but -- he realises he has paused in his steps and he forces himself to keep moving. Benjamin has the sense that letting Farley know how much anything means to him personally is generally a bad idea. "Yes, of course. He's my Lyco -- it's my responsibility to make sure he's decently looked-after."

Farley looks at him skeptically. "You've certainly made more effort to speak with him than his old Leash ever did," he says frankly. "Marlow never bothered beyond meeting him in the trenches before a shift."

Benjamin does stop, now, and not entirely because they're outside the Phage's mess. "Why are you here?" he asks, matching blunt words with forthright attitude.

Farley snorts and spits, missing a passing Private by mere inches. "You're alright, for a leech," he says grudgingly. "He likes you. It'd be a shame if he ripped you up."

Benjamin serenely ignores the slur and makes the expected noise of acknowledgement before the Lance Corporal's words sink in and he turns to stare. Farley's a gruff sort, someone as like to leave you with a knife in your ribs as he is to fall into one's bed -- not that Benjamin would know anything about that, of course -- but right now, he's dead serious. 

Farley takes Benjamin's silence as a prompting to continue. "You ever train dogs?" he asks. "Not hunting dogs -- fighting dogs."

Benjamin frowns. "Of course not," Benjamin says tartly. What is Farley getting at? "It's illegal. And anyway, I've only trained horses." 

"Is that so? I'll make sure to remember that next time," Farley retorts in a like tone. He goes on before Benjamin has a chance to reply. "--Anyway, they need more than just fighting if you want to keep them healthy." 

Benjamin could roll his eyes -- of course Farley is the sort to know how to train fighting dogs. But he is still listening when Farley continues with, "That other one, though -- either he let Blake run wild on the attack or he just left him to rot in a pen, whenever there was a shift." 

Benjamin stills as he parses that. Training Lycos to be fighting dogs -- well, he supposes that makes sense. "That other one" must be Marlow, then. And -- well, that is standard training for Phages joining the Army as Leashes. Leash training encourages -- alright, suggests -- that it isn't the best idea to leave Lycos to their own devices as wolves, but it's not exactly prohibited. The Leash's role is mainly to prevent injury by Lyco to the human soldiers. 

Benjamin supposes he's never considered this before. He knew that even ordinary dogs will get destructive without something constructive to do -- he hadn't thought to apply that to Lyco wolves during a full moon.

"Anyway," Farley says casually, as though he's not at all aware of how uncomfortable Benjamin is with that train of thought (though Benjamin can see the sharp intelligence in his eyes), "I just always thought it odd, y'know? You leeches, you're supposed to be bloody hard to kill. So how'd Blake's old one get killed when Blake wasn't?"

Benjamin feels a chill ripple down his spine. He looks around quickly; there are too many people for him to be comfortable having this conversation in the open. Without another word, he gets a grip on Farley's webbing and hauls him into the shadow of the tent, well off the path and out of sight, ignoring Farley's squawk of irritation.

"Corporal, are you implying that Blake is responsible for--" he can't quite state it outright "--what happened to his partner?" Benjamin amends very quietly once they are sufficiently distant. He is aware that he is drawing his authority around himself.

Farley smoothes out imaginary wrinkles in his uniform, glaring -- he isn't fazed by Benjamin's rank in the slightest. Nevertheless, he matches Benjamin's volume when he replies. "I'm implying nothing," Farley says, low. "I'm only mentioning that maybe his handler weren't so good at doing his job." He jabs a finger into Benjamin's chest. "--And that he might have some nasty trouble on his plate if his next handler wound up the same as the first."

Benjamin doesn't really know what to say to that. There's a lot to unpack -- where does he even  _ begin -- _

"Watch yourself tonight," Farley ends, only a little menacingly, and with that it appears the Lance Corporal's sociability for the moment has run out; he flicks a mock salute and fucks off before Benjamin can stop him (without looking stupid, anyway), leaving Benjamin to mull it all over his meal with increasing anxiety. Entering the mess tent, Benjamin makes his selection. 

He doesn't even enjoy his meal, preoccupied with turning over Farley's words as he is. On the positive side, it is nice to have confirmation that Benjamin has won over Blake, at least -- though Benjamin judged that he and Blake were getting on well enough, Farley knows Blake better than Benjamin at this juncture. Farley isn't one to lie about this sort of thing, either. So there's that, sorted.

The rest, though -- the rest is very disquieting. __ And bloody  _ late _ \-- Farley couldn't have bothered to tell Benjamin  _ before _ the first full moon he and Blake are to work together?

Benjamin knows that there is nothing officially tying Blake to the death of his Leash. The other two Leash/Lyco pairs were far from the incident and were not witnesses. Blake, as a wolf, was recovered by one of them an hour later, some distance away from where the altercation took place, dragging a broken leg. That Leash -- Marleigh -- had investigated the site briefly and determined that a fight with an enemy Lyco had taken place. He further reported that Blake had shown no signs of aggression and had been persuaded to be escorted off the battlefield by him and his Lyco, both. 

Blake himself reported he had no memory of the attack. Benjamin knows this because it is in the Inquiry records, the informal questioning of Blake that took place after. Because there was another Lyco who had obviously been present, and because Blake had not reacted hostilely to Marleigh, it had been naturally concluded that the death was due to enemy attack.

Benjamin releases the German prisoner as an afterthought, noting distantly that the man is a bit whiter than he should be. Oh, well -- so long as no one else chooses him for a meal tonight, he'll have time to recover.

Leaving, Benjamin returns to the most pressing question he has. Why would Farley warn Benjamin of -- anything? What does he know that the Court of Inquiry would not?

\--How Marlow treated Blake. It seems so obvious that Benjamin can't believe he hadn't already figured it out. And, given what he's learnt about his predecessor, Benjamin can deduce that the effects of that treatment would be most visible in the wolf. What will Benjamin be facing? 

Benjamin needs to find Blake -- Benjamin needs to see what state he is in. It's not that now is the best time for questions -- Blake won't be able to recount anything anyway -- and Benjamin trusts Blake, at the very least -- but sometimes the shift doesn't go smoothly when the man is agitated. If Benjamin can ease any agitation, things will certainly go better tonight.

~ * ~

Richards finds Joseph as the sun starts to set. The rest of the platoon has steered clear; Marlow warned them to stay away from Joseph during this time, back when Joseph first joined, and it's been that way ever since. But Joseph supposes that Richards, who isn't anything like Marlow, would of course act differently; Joseph should have figured Richards would look for him.

"Are you alright, there, Blake?" Richards asks, with gentleness one should not afford a beast.

"Go away," Joseph tells him. It'll be miserable having Richards around, knowing that the Phage won't be so interested in being friendly come tomorrow morning.

Richards isn't bad for a Hematophage. Hell, Joseph  _ likes _ Richards. Marlow was an arse without humor, personality, or the slightest amount of agreeability; Richards is the complete opposite. Moreover, he's made an effort to get to know Joseph and has demonstrated on more than one occasion that he can be relied on for -- whatever. Joseph Blake is not so foolish as to have ignored the incredible effort Richards has made the two weeks they've known each other to win Joseph around. 

And Richards . . . Richards has succeeded. Enough so, Joseph unhappily realises upon seeing his Leash, that Joseph is almost as upset over how he has successfully avoided Richards for practically the entire day as he is upset over it being a full moon. It's just been easier to avoid him, knowing that tonight, Richards will see the monster Joseph becomes. 

(Joseph tries to remember that things are not irreparable. As he's learnt time and time again with the men of 9th Platoon, any relationship can be repaired with adequate bribery, or adequate apology, or -- or -- 

\-- fuck. He can't even summon humour in this instance. It's not men of the 9th Platoon he's worried about -- it's his  _ Leash.) _

Richards pauses at Joseph's angry dismissal, clearly surprised. He sizes Joseph up. "Sorry, old chap," he says with the intentional carelessness of someone who has heard what another has said and is choosing to disregard it anyway. "I'm afraid this is, rather, my job."

_ "Please _ go away," Joseph says after a considered moment. "You're going to get to know me a whole hell of a lot better in a few hours -- so until then, just  _ leave me alone." _

"They tell us that's a bad idea, did you know?" Richards says, amiable, chatty, and bloody irritating as all hell. He settles himself comfortably into a seat next to Joseph. "Leaving Lycos alone. I heard it in training."

"Is that what they told you?" Joseph snaps, something cracking in him. "How nice for you. They told  _ us _ to steer clear. Didn't want us to hurt  _ people." _

"You're not going to hurt people," Richards says lightly, practically. "You're going to hurt Germans." He winces at whatever look Joseph has, and recants. "Alright, so -- alright." He looks Joseph up and down quickly, as if re-evaluating things, and puts a gentle hand on Joseph's shoulder. "Would it help if I said I wouldn't let you hurt our people?" he asks, more soberly.

No, not really. But Joseph supposes it is the best he can hope for. "By any means necessary?" Joseph asks tiredly.

Richards frowns. "Really?"

Joseph looks away. He needs this. He  _ needs _ this. If Richards won't do it, what is Joseph to do?--

"By any means necessary," Richards interrupts him, strongly. He squeezes the hand on Joseph's shoulder just to make sure Joseph notices, which -- he shouldn't find such relief in that pressure -- but it grounds him.

Joseph stares at Richards. He scents the air: his Leash is not lying.

"Good," Joseph says. The sense of victory feels hollow. "Good," he repeats, and discounts the shaking of his limbs as pre-moon jitters. He shrugs Richards's hand off as an afterthought.

Richards huffs. "Now that we're clear on that, will you let me do my job?" Richards asks, less patiently. "I've been trying to talk to you all day, but you're bloody good at sneaking off."

Joseph is ready to tear his hair out from guilt and rage, both. "Talk about  _ what?" _ he demands. Is it too late to get up and leave? No -- where else would he go? "What is there to speak about? We already know our jobs. I shift. You make sure I kill the right people. In the morning, we get some sleep, and then we do it all over again for the next two nights."

"Yes, but --" Richards stops and sighs. "Look. I just wanted to ask if there was anything you would need after the shift in the morning." 

This is -- it throws Joseph for a moment. "Like what?" he asks, warily. Is this some kind of trick?

"Well,  _ I _ don't know," Richards says, sounding exasperated -- but  _ not _ conniving. Sincere -- he truly is curious. "Will you want to wash? Is there something in particular you'd like to eat, or drink maybe? I might not be able to get anything really tricky this late, but I should have some time in the morning."

Joseph blinks. He . . . doesn't know where to go with that. 

Richards's eyes narrow. "Look," he says, tone patient, for all it contradicts his posture. "What did your previous Leash do for you after your shift?"

Well, that's more direct, at least. "Nothing," Joseph says, voice flat despite his best efforts. "Once I shift back, you're off duty."

Richards -- stills. There isn't any other way to describe it -- he does that bizarre Phage thing where he turns into stone. After a moment, he opens his mouth to say something, but looks closely at Joseph, clearly thinks better of it, and shuts his mouth again. 

Joseph sighs. He's feeling the itch already, and between that and the blood and the screaming, he just wants to sit in quiet. "If you're not going to leave, will you please just -- not talk?"

"Alright," Richards says after a moment. He sits quietly, and Joseph does his best to imprint that courtesy in his mind -- a reminder to the wolf he will become -- for the remainder of that long hour. 

In the late twilight, Joseph gets up. It is time to get ready. Steeling himself against Richards's frown, Joseph starts to strip. 

Before the war, Joseph was never ashamed of his body. Nudity is part and parcel of being a Lycanthrope. Now -- it's humiliating, waiting for the shift to take hold, bare to the gaze of whomever so pleases to look. And it can't be the first time Richards has seen a shift, but it will be the first time he sees  _ Joseph  _ shifting -- it's all a mess. 

Richards makes a noise of dismay when he realises that Joseph intends to walk through the camp stark naked. It's easier that way, Joseph has found -- trying to locate his things on the front line trench after is always difficult, so now he leaves them wherever he fasts and finds them in the morning.

"You can't be comfortable like that," Richards says, trying to cover his shock.

"I'm not," Joseph replies, doing his best not to grind his teeth too much.

Richards's eyebrows climb up his forehead, but he doesn't say anything else. 

They make their way to the part of the Front they have been assigned as their starting point this night. Joseph is an expert at ignoring the strange looks he gets making his way to the Front; Richards is not. Joseph can smell his deepening dissatisfaction with -- who even knows. Joseph hasn't the time or inclination to speculate at the moment.

"Cutting it close, boys," says the Lieutenant where Joseph and Richards were ordered to report. This Lieutenant is not familiar to Joseph, but he knows the routine: "Pick a place and wait for the signal."

Joseph finds a part of the trench that has the lowest walls -- it'll be easier to clear. The men around them, unfamiliar, shy back once he crouches at the bottom of the trench. Joseph hopes that they won't think less of him for the tremor all through him. It's the best effort he can make to keep from shaking.

"This is ridiculous," Richards says suddenly. Joseph hears rustling cloth -- Richards digging in his kit for something. "What am I doing? I'm a bloody idiot. Sorry, Blake." 

Joseph shifts his weight uneasily, unsure what Richards means by that, and stills in surprise when the Phage expertly flicks out a new-smelling rain slicker so that it settles over Joseph, covering him completely and shielding him from the gaze of others. 

It's bizarre. It feels -- most immediately, Joseph feels -- safe? Safer, anyway, and Joseph can  _ breathe. _ He does shake, now, and something that is uncomfortably like tears prick at his eyes, overwhelmed as he is for a moment by the kindness of the gesture. But just as Joseph finally collects himself to stammer out some thanks, the shift takes hold --

\-- cloth all over him. A vague association with Brother -- sense memory of playing with swathes of forgotten flapping cloth hanging from the sky -- then it is lifted off of him by Person -- 

\-- surprise, bright and citrusy -- fear; not as sharp as it usually seems to be. Rising, now --

\-- thundering cracks. The whistles blow. What little sense Joseph has left of himself vanishes as he leaps onto the battlefield. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to yonderlight for a) continuing to enjoy geeking out over this world and b) being SUCH AN AMAZING EDITOR, wow!!!! Guys, yonder did so much to help whip this chapter into shape, you don't even KNOW.
> 
> WOOOOOOOO new chapter uppppppp. Won't lie, I rewrote it like four times, bUT now I know where the narrative arc is actually going! Hahaha. ~~why is it so hard to write without having historical events to base this on~~ Anyway, here's my anniversary gift to you! (Four years as of yesterday, oh hubster of mine <3 To forty more!) 
> 
> Unrelated: wow!!!! FateRagalan and Pavuvu are amazing and have created ART for _[poppies grow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052311)_ \-- both pieces have been embedded in it at the appropriate spots <3 FateRagalan also created some fanart for _[the guns below](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897365/chapters/58299445)_ chapter 3 -- go check it out!
> 
> The next chapter will be up within a week. It's mostly written already, but, like this chapter, I think I need to rewrite it like two or three times to get it into the right shape :) Anyway, stay tuned!


	3. April 16th [continued] - 17th, 1916

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lycanthrope/Lyco/dog = werewolf  
> Hematophage/Phage/leech = vampire
> 
> Warning also for wolfy stream-of-consciousness!

_ April 16th [continued] - 17th, 1916 _

Space, all around him. Cool, getting colder. No frost. He sings inquiry; who else? --calls, distant: familiar-but-Not-Pack, border-wolves. One, unfamiliar, rises high above the rest -- Not-Pack,  _ not _ border-wolf.  _ Who dares?  _

He runs. Person won't stop him, he can run from Person. It is a source of twisting, sneaking pleasure to outrun Person and make Person angry. 

And it is good to stretch fully, be free, claws digging into the ground that is alternately soft and hard beneath him, sometimes tearing up roots, sometimes not. Even with the thunder-no-rain, the kind that makes his ears ache, the night promises everything. The land opens up around him, filled with intriguing nooks and crannies. Dips in the ground, often wet and splashing, sometimes filled with the scent of meat ranging from good-to-eat to less-good-to-eat to only-if-starving. But even with the ache of an empty belly, it is too much fun to run right now for him to bother stopping. 

\--For once, Person is following close behind. Person moves steadily, quietly -- Person is not hindering the hunt. 

\--Meat. Fresh blood, fresh meat -- crying, whimpers like pups (Brother?) -- hot metal, stinking smoke, slithering oil. He moves over bodies, does not scent Brother -- but the thought of Brother makes him angry.  _ What if this was Tom? _ Joseph whispers in the back of his mind and that sends him leaping into the death-nest with metal-bird and Not-Brothers, Brother-Killers, and they are easy prey. 

It feels so good to act on this anger. He is angry all the time, it seems now, and he is never able to let it out. Now he can sink his fangs into skin and flesh and taste blood, and even if the screams are deafening and there is fire from one strike deep in his side, at least  _ he _ is the cause of it all. He feels his teeth catch on bone with the last of the prey still moving and pulls, throwing everything into it, and revels in the muted pop and wet rip that results. 

"Bloody hell," Person whispers. He smells shock and -- not fear, not anger, not hate. Excitement. Person likes this hunt. He stops and looks at Person --

\-- Person does not look the same. Person does not smell the same either.  _ Is _ this Person?

This discrepancy is actually enough to shiver Joseph free from the depths of his mind.  _ Richards, _ Joseph murmurs. A memory, brief, over-bright where scent is confusingly muted -- a memory of quiet, of Person -- Richards -- sitting quiet when asked. Ensuring his safety. 

_ Richards, _ Joseph says again, and is gone, but the impression is made. This isn't Person, this is Richards -- New-Person; the name is already slipping away. But not Person. 

New smells. They demand investigation. New-Person is sorting through the bodies. New-Person can come too -- if New-Person can keep up. He bounds out of the death-nest and scents the air for other threats, ready for the next fight. 

~ * ~

Blake's wolf, when it is revealed, is not like the wolves Benjamin remembers seeing at training. He understands instantly why Blake and Marlow had such a good track record -- this beast is enormous. It's nearly thrice the size of Blake when he was huddling in the bottom of the trench, bigger than any Benjamin has ever seen, and, once the whistle blows the signal to advance, it is  _ raging. _

It is all Benjamin can do to catch up, scrambling up the ladder after Blake. Blake howls once he is over the top, something deep and lonely, oblivious to the men parting around him; other Lycos call up and down the line answer. Farther, another howl echoes from the north in challenge. Blake orients himself on that cry and goes tearing straight across the field.

Benjamin sprints after him, swearing. There hadn't been any reports of enemy Lycos, and yet there is at least one here; they will have to be careful. He will see if he can guide Blake away from it -- they may as well be a junior pair given Benjamin's newness, and it is  _ not _ their responsibility to engage when there are more senior pairs on the line. Benjamin may be ambitious, but he isn't  _ stupid. _

Blake doesn't stop for anything, swerving around the charging soldiers with ease. He leaps over one unlucky section that has been cut down by a machine-gun, hidden in shadow, and straight into the emplacement. Screams ring out as Blake savages the enemy soldiers. At least one of the Germans manages to stab the wolf, desperately, but Blake doesn't falter; he rips the man's arm off with casual ease and sets his teeth in another's throat before Benjamin can aim his rifle properly. And then it's over and it is all Benjamin can do to swear and stuff a grenade in the barrel as best he can before Blake is racing for the next target, and the next. 

Benjamin struggles to keep up. He is lucky in some regard -- though Blake is dark, very dark, almost black in colour, he is streaked with white all over. The streaks make it a little easier to follow his progress, for even with Benjamin's clear vision as a Hematophage, it is very hard to distinguish between a wolf as dark as the shadows and the actual terrain.

Benjamin only really catches up to him once. He takes the opportunity to hook his fingers around the knife still embedded in Blake's side. It's a little thing, fortunately; better yet, Blake doesn't seem to notice him doing it. The wound should have an easier time of closing now. 

As though that is a signal, Blake stops after the next Hun position he clears. His fur is streaked with gore that flattens it down in odd patterns; the light of the moon bounces off it oddly, highlighting how his ribs expand as he pants for breath. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and he looks around, fury seemingly sated for the moment.

Benjamin takes the opportunity to pull out the tin he "borrowed" from Sergeant Everard's mess kit earlier today. He fills it from the canteen of water and sets it on the ground, not too far from Blake, and snaps his fingers to catch Blake's attention. The wolf pricks his ears and looks at it interestedly, taking a few steps in Benjamin's direction, but he stops just out of reach and only looks at it. Benjamin takes a few steps back. Blake is satisfied with this: he comes forward and drinks, noisily. 

Benjamin takes the time to survey their surroundings. They've cleared the forward-most part of the German line here -- and if he remembers correctly, they are at the northernmost part of their patrol section. They should head south along the line once Blake is finished.

That howl from before echoes across the battlefield, high above the thudding of mortar fire and the smaller cracking of rifles. It's much closer this time and sounds as though it is coming from behind, almost -- it must have swept along the British line, or through the middle of No-Man's-Land. Not good -- they need to get going. 

Blake has finished with the water and moved on. Benjamin scoops up the emptied mess tin, then blows his whistle when he notices that Blake is starting to eat at a fallen German. They've no time for that, and it can't be good for him anyway. Blake freezes in place at the signal to stop. His ears flatten against his skull and the look he turns on Benjamin is, suddenly, terrifying. 

Benjamin holds his ground against the bubbling snarl the wolf threatens him with and blows three sharp blasts on the whistle, pointing in the direction opposite from the howl. Instead, Blake swivels that furious gaze the wrong way and stiffens, clearly catching the scent of the Huns' Lyco. Benjamin sees how the wolf prepares to spring and blows sharply on the whistle again --  _ STOP. _

Blake turns his forward momentum into a twisting side-step, appearing rather like a horse whose motion is curbed. He focuses on Benjamin, growling now, ears flattening out in displeasure.

"Don't start with that," Benjamin says firmly. He refuses to let himself doubt that Blake will obey him -- he knows Blake will sense it and test the directive, otherwise. "You know your signals. We're going this way." He sets the whistle to his lips, turns his whole body to make it clear what he means when he points in the opposite direction, and blows the whistle thrice. 

This time, Blake snaps at the air -- but it is his last show of defiance. He orients himself in the right direction, scents the air, and then sprints again.

~ * ~

He is hungry. He is so hungry. Thunder-no-rain is less and the pressure is easing in his ears. Meat scent -- good meat --

There is an odd noise. He looks. New-Person has set out something that glints and smells like metal and  _ water. _

He is thirsty. He moves closer, but not so close. New-Person moves back -- New-Person does not want the water. He drinks from it. It tastes better than the water in the dips and hollows of the land. 

When it is gone he turns to eat the good meat that is nearby. This is new meat, bloody meat, and savoury for all it is so lean. The best parts are hidden under toughest hide and metal that clacks unpleasantly against his teeth, so he settles for the most available -- throat, and after seeking further, skin that tears free beneath toughest hide. He noses at the head, too, and longs for the tender mouth muscle and the soft cheeks, but Joseph doesn't like that. Joseph flinches at the bare paws of the forelegs as well, but  _ that _ he can discount as not worth the effort with all the little bones they contain anyway. 

It doesn't matter. He does not get more than a few mouthfuls before New-Person hisses and smells disgusted. The Signal for Stop shrills. 

He turns -- it is New-Person. He snarls. He is hungry. He is  _ hungry. _ This is  _ his _ prey,  _ he _ brought it down. New-Person is  _ wrong. _

New-Person points in a new direction and Signals Go. Go? He smells not-familiar-wolf -- he knows what that means. New-Person must mean this. New-Person won't let him eat  _ (relief). _ New-Person doesn't smell this threat. He gathers himself and --  _ Stop. _

He does not like New-Person. (Joseph stirs in the deep, anxious. It sets his teeth on edge.)

New-Person is not impressed by his dislike -- but New-Person is not angry. New-Person does not create pain. New-Person says familiar things firmly, calmly, and turns to face the other way. Go.  _ Go, _ echoes Joseph.

He still is not happy. But New-Person signals Go. There is no pain from his reluctance and New-Person offers certainty. 

Fine. He snaps at nothing and goes. There is more to do over here anyway. He goes fast -- if New-Person wants him to do this, they will hunt  _ his _ way. 

Pragmatism wars with his anger. He knows he cannot afford to use this much energy. But it is hard not to rage so thoroughly. His fury  _ (hurt), _ pent up so long, is hot and bright.  _ Yes. Show him what I  _ really _ am _ echoes in the back of his mind. 

The resignation in it does not sit well. He finds a narrow passage packed with fearful intruders and lets his frustrations loose on them. 

~ * ~

Over the next several hours, Blake does a very good job of running Benjamin ragged. They range up and down the German line, Blake scything through the soldiers who are manning the trenches with ease. It is nasty work. By necessity, Blake brings the fighting into the closest of quarters, and he moves so bloody fast that Benjamin can't possibly justify the time and risk to attempt using his rifle properly. 

To be honest, Blake doesn't need that much help. He is more than capable of ripping through anyone and anything in his way. But that doesn't mean he is invulnerable. 

He is hit, again and again throughout the night: bullets, yes, at least two more knives that Benjamin counts, and then finally Blake is staggered by one burly Hun shouting in fear and fury who is wielding a trench club with startling dexterity. A lucky blow catches Blake across the skull and he staggers back with a whimper. Fortunately, Benjamin is able to take the opportunity to slide in and deflect the next blow coming down on a reeling Blake with his rifle -- Benjamin then knocks the Hun off balance and guts him with his bayonet almost immediately after. 

In the lull that follows this quick fight, Benjamin attempts to check on Blake. The wolf is trying to get up, but seems to be having trouble getting back up on his feet. 

"Easy there, Blake," Benjamin says, keeping his tone calm and even. He reaches out, making sure his movement is slow and obvious.

Blake is having none of it. He snarls and snaps with such viciousness that Benjamin jerks back despite himself. It is an impasse.

"All right," Benjamin says, irrationally frustrated. He knows it is foolish of him to be annoyed. Blake the man would be more sensible, but this isn't Blake the man, it's Blake the wolf. Aware that his patience is thinning to the breaking point, though, Benjamin backs off and leaves Blake alone. Blake is a Lycanthrope. He'll probably be back on his feet soon, anyway.

Benjamin sets himself to finding something else to occupy his attention until Blake recovers. He starts with hurriedly strapping his rifle to his back -- any more bashing like that and the barrel might get bent. Not impossible to fix, but bloody bothersome. He sheathes his bayonet -- he can use it as a backup weapon, as it does have a proper grip for wielding it by hand if necessary -- and hefts the German's trench club consideringly; it's unwieldy, but in this sort of action, perfectly suited for the task. Really, Benjamin should have thought this through beforehand. 

By the time Benjamin is newly outfitted, Blake has staggered up shakily back on all four paws. He wobbles alarmingly, but he still won't let Benjamin get close, so there's nothing to be done. However, he doesn't appear to be inclined to continue on his rampage, yet. Benjamin finds one of the German soldier's canteens still full of water and puts out another bowlful for Blake, who sniffs it and starts to lap it up, clumsily.

Benjamin takes a moment to stretch. It's still only -- he checks his watch -- one in the morning, and they have orders to harry the German lines until half an hour before moonset, which means they've still nearly four hours to go. At the rate they've been moving, Benjamin is going to burn out long before then.

He digs around in his pockets until he finds the bottle of Forced March he keeps on him. It's damned useful stuff, even for a Hematophage; he just needs something his body can stomach to help keep it down. He needs something to eat, then. 

The Hun he gutted is still gurgling in the trench, choking out something pleading. He's the best option at the moment (as he is still  _ alive), _ much though it makes Benjamin grimace: it is highly uncouth to actually kill whomever one drinks from. --But the man is already dying and his blood is seeping -- wasted -- into the mud, otherwise; or that is how Benjamin convinces himself it is only practical and not morally questionable. 

"Sorry, old chap," Benjamin says to the man on the ground and swallows two of his pills dry. "Necessity, and all that." 

To the still-drinking Blake, he says, "Give me just one minute."

Blake pauses, ears pricking up, and makes a displeased noise. 

Benjamin rolls his eyes. "Don't start. I'm  _ supposed _ to drink human blood --  _ you're _ not supposed to eat humans. Don't go running off without me, now," he adds. 

With that, Benjamin hauls the Hun up, batting aside the man's feeble attempts to shove him off, and sinks his teeth into the artery in the man's neck. It's the least painful way for the German that Benjamin can drink -- and anyway, between Benjamin's saliva and the rate at which the man is already bleeding out, this Hun is not going to feel anything for very long. 

After the near-constant activity, the first gulp is like the finest wine, heady and dazzling. The second is bliss; the third is rejuvenation. Benjamin holds the man with something akin to tenderness at the euphoric sensations as the man's struggles slowly cease and he goes limp. 

Benjamin drinks until he feels he can go for another few hours without collapsing. Surprisingly, it isn't before the Hun runs out of blood -- though his heart has stopped at last. 

"Thank you," he says politely at the end, ignoring the slight hoarseness in his voice as he sets the man's body down more gently than Benjamin picked him up. It is so . . . distasteful, that combination of ignoring convention and the relief being satiated brings. 

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then grimaces at his mistake. Now he'll have fairly obvious stains in his tunic. Well, if his pills see him through all right, he'll be able to rinse them out when they make it back to their lines before the stains set.

\--get back to camp. Right. Benjamin looks around for his Lyco. Blake is seated by the machine-gun. He appears to have given up drinking -- the bowl has been tipped over. He twitches and half shakes his head as Benjamin watches, stopping abruptly with the movement; then Blake repeats it, seemingly unaware he has just done it. That blow must have hit him fairly hard -- concussion, perhaps?

Bugger. With the way the German lines work, they have some space to take a moment -- machine gun emplacements are usually several dozen yards from the actual German front trench-line, and they did clear the section of trench directly behind this emplacement. Still, it won't be long before someone comes to check --

Blake whines softly and lies down, his entire being expressing clear unhappiness. It doesn't help that he's half-lying on a body; it seems to disorient him further that the ground isn't flat.

Benjamin sighs. "We can take a good fifteen minutes," he says to Blake. He knows the wolf won't quite understand, but Benjamin hopes some of this gets through. "Let me help -- and please don't bite."

With that he does his best not to think about how stupid an idea this is and moves slowly, deliberately, to the body Blake is on top of. Blake watches him -- sort of -- but doesn't do anything until Benjamin grabs the corpse's collar and starts tugging it out from under Blake. Then Blake digs his claws in and growls, but he is definitely not in any shape to put up a fuss beyond this little show, and Benjamin pulls the body free with very little trouble. He shoves it on top of the others.

What does one even do for a wolf with a concussion? --Let him rest a bit, Benjamin supposes. He doesn't know the first thing about canine medicine, he realises, which seems like a glaring error. In training they didn't bother with much -- Lycos have such fast healing rates that much of the instruction boiled down to "wrap a limb up if it's broken, but honestly they can and will grow them back if you need to, so don't fuss" which is wildly impractical when one's Lyco has internal bleeding in his skull.

Well. Benjamin will just give him some time to rest for now. 

It seems to take ages for Blake to start acting more alert -- half an hour, by Benjamin's reckoning; but then again, Benjamin felt the combined caffeine and cocaine of his pills granting him a burst of energy that turns a bit nervous from all the waiting fifteen minutes into it. He just does his best to ignore the attendant anxiety that comes with fretting about being discovered before Blake is ready to move. 

\--Anyway. At last, Blake gets to his feet and shakes himself thoroughly. He gingerly steps over to Benjamin.

Benjamin holds very still. He hasn't any idea of what Blake is up to, but he does know that Blake is still under the effects of his head injury, so it's best if Benjamin doesn't move quickly. He is very surprised when Blake begins to nose at him, snuffling at every inch the wolf can easily reach. There isn't any sense of danger that Benjamin can glean -- it seems to be a gesture of genuine concern. At the last, the wolf pauses briefly at the fresh blood on the sleeve of Benjamin's tunic, then whuffs companionably in Benjamin's ear. 

Benjamin is, absurdly, touched. "Checking me over, eh?" he asks, keeping his tone calm and light. "You  _ are _ a good lad, aren't you?" 

Blake makes another whuffing noise that sounds very much like a bit of a laugh. He gathers himself up and leaps, clearing the top of the emplacement with ease, and stands there, clearly waiting for Benjamin to hurry it up.

"All right, just let me grab your bowl, you lunatic," Benjamin says, and does so. He checks his watch; it's ten to two in the morning. They've three hours yet before they are to return. "Let's say we clear out for another hour and then make our way back to the line, hmm?"

Blake doesn't answer; he's started loping off already. Not sprinting anymore, thank God. Benjamin grabs his new trench club and climbs out to catch up, tossing a few grenades at the gun as a parting gift. 

Their luck runs out an hour before moonset. Benjamin and Blake are taking it easy, both tired after nearly eight hours of constant activity. Benjamin is preoccupied with wondering if it is a lack of food that is hampering Blake's recovery --Blake is still unable to do more than lope -- when there is a shout and a snarl and the Huns' Lyco slams into Blake from nowhere. They go down in a rolling tumble that sends them sliding into a crump-hole.

Benjamin spins, scanning the immediate vicinity -- he doesn't see anyone, not yet, so he scrambles to the edge of the crater and assesses the situation.

The German Lyco is a slight thing but it had the advantage of surprise and has knocked Blake off his balance. Blake is on the defensive, disoriented from the tumble, and he struggles to get purchase in the slippery muck beneath the water that floods the bottom of the hole. He can only attempt to evade the enemy Lyco's claws and fangs as it slashes and bites at Blake.

Benjamin curses abominably. He would be nothing but a liability in that terrain -- for all his speed and strength, he would flounder just as badly as Blake. If only Blake could make it out of there --

A bullet whizzes past his ear. Benjamin drops to the ground. Looking in the direction he thinks the shot came from, he sees the enemy Lyco's Leash, perhaps a hundred yards away. There is no cover --

Benjamin throws himself forward into the crump-hole, readying his club as he goes. He manages to orient himself so that he slides in feet first; when he lands at the bottom he plants them in the muck and uses his momentum to swing, hard, for the enemy Lyco. If they finish off this enemy first, they can go for the Leash together. He prays he doesn't miss -- this is the best opportunity he will get.

The blow connects and staggers the smaller wolf. Blake surges forward, still slipping a little, but sets his teeth in the Lyco's throat. The enemy Lyco snarls chokingly and jerks back, trying to free itself from the crushing bite; Benjamin sees Blake's weight sliding. He cannot hold for more than another moment or so.

Benjamin, grimly, does not allow himself to think about all the things that can go wrong as he closes the distance. Whilst Blake holds the Lyco in one place, Benjamin swiftly wraps one arm around the Lyco's snapping jaws for balance, pulls his bayonet free from his belt, and grips it like a knife. Taking a brief moment to aim, he draws the sharp edge of the blade brutally across the enemy wolf's throat, just above Blake's bite.

Blood spurts everywhere. Benjamin drops his bayonet in disgust, nauseated despite himself, and stumbles back. Once he is clear, Blake immediately wrenches his head one way, then another, and tears the enemy Lyco's head clean off with a ghastly popping noise.

"Oh, well done," Benjamin says faintly as Blake drops the head and staggers, shaking. He's in awful shape: the now-dead Lyco managed to get in at least one massive gouge laying open Blake's flank, wetting his coat with a fresh layer of gore. 

Blake's ears prick forward and he looks up, past Benjamin. Hurriedly, Benjamin yanks his rifle free over his head and pivots, chambering the next round in and lifting it -- just in time. The enemy Leash's head pops into view over the lip of the crater and Benjamin makes a clean shot of it. The Hun Phage's head snaps to the side and he falls backwards.

Wearily, Benjamin pulls himself out of the crater. It is rough going. Blake, despite his obvious impaired balance, manages to slip-leap his way out; Benjamin is left clawing at the muck to find purchase enough to pull himself out. 

How he makes it is a mystery to Benjamin. He is ready to collapse by the time he finds himself free of the quagmire. Ahead, Blake is nosing the fallen Leash as though wondering why he fell over before Blake could get him. When Benjamin draws level with him, Blake looks at him and his tongue lolls out in a very dog-like grin. 

"I don't know about you," Benjamin croaks, leaning on his rifle, "but I'm ready to turn in." 

As though he agrees, Blake whuffs and leaves off poking at the dead Phage. He pads over to Benjamin (he's limping again, Benjamin sees) and starts to nose at Benjamin gently, much like he did before, in the emplacement. Benjamin feels a swell of fondness in him -- Blake really is a very sweet fellow, whether he's wearing fur or walking on two legs. 

It's instinct: Benjamin reaches out, just as he would any other hound, intending to give the wolf a friendly scratch round the ears.

Blake flinches back, cowering, and cringes his way out of reach. The friendliness apparent in his demeanor a moment ago is gone as though it never existed; now, fur prickles up Blake's spine and about his neck and  _ all _ of that fury from hours earlier returns to his eyes. He snarls horribly and skitters back further when Benjamin, slow to understand, takes a step closer. 

Benjamin freezes in his tracks and holds still, hardly daring to breathe. He knows instinctively that if he makes one threatening move now, Blake's wolf will attack.

Here, then, is the answer to all the questions raised by Farley. What happens when one cruelly mistreats a Lyco wolf as if it were a dog? Benjamin wonders, a little hysterically. Damn Marlow. Damn Marlow all to hell. 

It is sickeningly easy to imagine. All Hematophage soldiers are trained in acting as Leashes should the need arise, though there are far fewer eligible Lycanthropes for conscription than could ever be utilised as partners -- but that doesn't mean any of them are  _ amenable _ to playing nursemaid to a dog. How long was it before Marlow's reticence to properly handle Blake led to more violent methods of correction?

Knowing what Benjamin knows now -- 

"Easy, Blake," he says, as calmly as he can manage. "There's a good lad. I meant nothing by it. See?"

He holds out his hands. Slowly, Benjamin thinks, steady. This is the posture of an animal who is fearful, cornered -- not aggressive. What a sodding, bloody mess Benjamin has found himself in.

"Joseph," he tries this time. There's -- something at the name; a flicker, some change. Benjamin stays calm, quiet. "It's alright, Joseph. We're finished for the night. We're going back to the line." 

He repeats this patiently for several long minutes. Slowly, some of the madness leaves Blake's eyes. But not enough. Benjamin is acutely aware that they are running out of time. The moon will set, soon. He must get Blake back to the line or they will be trapped in No Man's Land. God, he wishes he had something to use -- as, as treats, or, or as a distraction,  _ something _ that would entice the wolf to follow. All he's got is himself. 

Perhaps, though. Perhaps, if he just keeps talking . . .

"That's right, Joseph," he says softly, and takes a slow step back. He twiddles his fingers as though Blake is a cat, attracted to small movements, and watches as the wolf's attention flicks between them and Benjamin's eyes. "Come on, lad, it'll be alright . . ."

It seems horribly clear to Benjamin, now, that Farley's warning was not just idle gossip. As he watches the wolf start a slow stalk, going utterly silent, Benjamin just hopes they will be able to make it back to the line instead of testing theories as to exactly how Marlow died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OvO How 'bout DEM apples?
> 
> Gigantic thanks to @yonderlight for, basically, existing??? Gosh Jules, you are!!! just!!!! so amazing!!!!!! Thank you for all the time you've spent shopping this fic with me and editing this chapter, aaaaa! It means so much <3
> 
> Shout-out also to writeyourownstory for the encouragement, as well as the fantastic Officers' Club and the Longfic Lads! Babes, all of you <3 Lastly, kisses to my irl sister, whose first introduction to 1917 was me pestering her to read my fics -- she started with this one and then tweeted about me being awesome so ayyyy, sis, love you too <3
> 
> Fun facts: when humans in non-cannibalistic societies have to revert to cannibalism (usually for survival), they tend to cut off the hands, feet, and heads and discard them -- it is hypothesized that those parts create too much cognitive dissonance. (In case you were wondering about Joseph's reticence re: eating someone's face.)
> 
> The last chapter will be up ~~within the week~~ \-- oh, who am I kidding? It'll be up in a few days. Stay tuned!


	4. April 17th [continued], 1916

_ April 17th [continued], 1916 _

As the moon begins to slip back over the horizon, Joseph feels his awareness of himself bleed through the last few moments of being a wolf. Mud and wicker walls, tall and close around his head -- wooden boards beneath his paws, springy and questionable -- New-Person  _ (Richards) _ just in front of him, coaxing him forward. Sounds  _ (words) _ \-- familiar, calming, upbeat. Repetitive. Soothing. 

He hurts, all over. His head pounds. His world has narrowed to the twitching of a man's fingers and putting one paw before another. 

The moon sets. 

The shift back to human hasn't always been this horrible. The wrenching reshaping and realignment of his body grates awfully against whatever injuries he has acquired, and once that has ended, the smell of his present state (of the blood, rot, mud, shit, and whatever else was caked in his fur -- now, on his skin) is unbearably nauseating. 

Joseph retches. He can't help it. He always retches going from one form to another if he's had anything, anything at all to eat or drink hours before the shift, and he always eats on moon nights these days. (And  _ oh, _ he should  _ not _ have thought of that --)

The heaving is less, this time. Whatever he ate or drank, it was early enough in the night that he metabolised most of it already. Still, Joseph carefully doesn't look at the puddle of sick he leaves behind. He crawls sideways with his eyes closed instead, clumsy now that he's back to two each of overly-long and overly-short legs.

\--Richards catches him before Joseph can collide with the trench wall. He talks, a steady stream of soothing nonsense, comforting and calming as he steadies Joseph and pulls him to his feet at the same time. Generously, Richards bears the larger part of Joseph's weight as Joseph finds his footing, unbalanced on only two. A few soldiers, watching sleepily, clap politely at the spectacle.

"Do you want to wash, eat, or sleep?" Richards asks quietly in Joseph's ear, ignoring their audience. He's far more energetic than he has any right to be, briskly pulling the rain slicker from yesterday evening out and tugging it over Joseph's head. "You look like you've only got it in you for one of those things before you sleep -- you've been dragging the last half-hour."

Joseph hasn't the energy to protest that Richards should just leave him be. Joseph might be used to fending for himself after a shift, but that doesn't mean he  _ likes _ it. --And Richards is right; Joseph is on the edge of collapsing from exhaustion. It'd be just his luck if these men wanted to have a bit of fun with an unconscious Lyco, still recovering from a moon night hunt.

"Wash," Joseph croaks. When he gets the smell out of his nose, he will feel much better. --Or he'll wake up in a better state, at least.

"Right," says Richards. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Joseph says, and makes a credible effort in proving it though the duckboards are painful under his bare feet. It isn't long before Richards makes him sling one filthy arm over Richards's shoulders anyway. 

"Where's the nearest I can find a shower?" Richards asks one of the men who are still watching. "Or barring that, a washbasin and some water?"

The soldier dithers for a moment until Richards does -- something. Joseph can't quite see what it is, but the man blanches and points down a trench. "Two dugouts over," he says, words tripping over themselves. "The Lieutenant's out -- he hogs it all himself, anyway."

"Thank you, my good man," Richards says genially, and pats the man on the shoulder. 

The soldier is right -- the dugout isn't empty, but when Richards announces he's commandeering the washbasin, no one stops him. Quickly, before any of them can get interested enough to come watch, Joseph exchanges the slicker for the basin and upends it over himself in the trench outside, trying to do so slowly enough that he can get at least some sort of rinse over everything. Richards helpfully offers the washrag, which makes it that much easier to scrape the worst of the muck off once it's loosened by the water.

When Joseph is finished, Richards hands back the slicker and returns the basin to the dugout. Joseph clumsily manages to wrap the slicker around himself before he makes his acquaintance first with the wall and then with the floor of this particular trench, unable to stand on his own any longer. 

Then Richards is back. Dimly, Joseph hears a startled curse as mud-caked boots swim into view. Joseph finds himself being pulled upright into a sitting position.

"We're not too far from our platoon," Richards tells him, holding him there, trying to make eye contact. Joseph can hardly keep his eyes open. "Can I carry you?"

"Sorry," Joseph mumbles, by which he means  _ yes. _ "You shouldn't have to. Sorry." The water might have brought him around briefly, but he's got nothing left in him at this point.

Richards leans forward, wrapping an arm under Joseph's legs and performs some fluid movement that ends with Joseph being hefted up over Richards's shoulder, high in the air. Muzzily, Joseph is grateful he has already lost the contents of his stomach with the way his head is hanging upside down. 

Joseph is barely conscious by the time Richards finds their platoon. He only just registers that someone else helps Richards lay him out on a cot. That is the last thing he remembers when he wakes, much later -- he is out before his head touches the pillow.

~ * ~

Kimberley whistles. "Wasn't expecting to see him back," he comments, sounding bemused. The man had woken when Benjamin banged into an empty crate, coming in with Blake over one shoulder. The Private was kind enough to help Benjamin get Blake into the cot in which the Lyco was now soundly sleeping. "Normally we don't see him until the end of it."

"The end of what?" Benjamin asks before he thinks it through.

"The full moon? --We usually only see him the third morning, anyway."

Benjamin thinks, for what must be the tenth or twelfth time since Blake's wolf nearly turned on him, that if Marlow were still around, Benjamin would wring his neck for him and be glad of the court-martial. Perhaps some of this shows. Kimberley flinches subtly and quickly looks elsewhere. 

Benjamin stops and takes the barest of moments to -- pull it all in. He is exhausted, yes, from the full night of combat; and he is coming down hard, now, from the adrenaline of the fight with the Lyco and the near-hour of hyper-awareness of coaxing Blake's wolf back to the line that followed. But Benjamin cannot rest; he has more to do, yet. He must be reasonably . . . human. 

"Can you keep an eye on him?" he asks Kimberley, a touch more politely. It is close to six in the morning. "I need to make our report to the Brass."

Kimberley nods, uncomfortable still. "Sure," he says, striving for nonchalance. "You'll be back in an hour though, right?"

Benjamin needs to take another moment to consciously relax his jaw and keep from snapping his own fangs with the pressure. He looks around for the Sergeant, who usually sleeps in the same billet, but doesn't see him present at the moment. "Tell Everard he can take his complaints to me," Benjamin says after briefly debating the merits of tracking the man down first to make sure Benjamin's orders are followed. "On my authority, for Leash/Lyco purposes."

"Go on, then," Kimberley says. He doesn't seem convinced, but -- it  _ is _ the first time Benjamin has used his authority this way. Privately, Benjamin doubts that Everard will accept it. As he ducks back out of the dugout, Benjamin makes a note to bring the matter up with Lieutenant Morshead -- later. After Benjamin reports to Major Hepburn and gets some bloody rest.

He reports. In all honesty, Benjamin does not remember much of it. He is able to appear adequately put-together, he supposes, despite his deplorably filthy state (which he does not bother to take the time to rectify as he is at the very end of his patience and has none left to spare on such fripperies); neither the Major nor any other officers in Battalion Headquarters seem phased by his appearance nor his demeanor. When they make much of his and Blake's success against the enemy Lyco, it is not as rewarding as Benjamin had anticipated such a thing might be twelve hours ago -- the praise grates uneasily with the memories of that desperate struggle and the bleak revelation immediately following it. It reminds Benjamin also that Blake is not safely through it all yet.

But then Benjamin is finished reporting; he is dismissed. With that task completed, Benjamin is free. Briefly, he contemplates getting someone to eat. He decides against it; he has two other tasks and he wants to be back at the dugout before Kimberley is ordered elsewhere. So, instead, Benjamin slogs off to where he and Blake sat before they went to the front line -- Blake's things are still there, clothing neatly folded on top of his kit. Benjamin has a fleeting moment of envy --  _ he _ can't just scrape off the muck with a cursory rinse, his uniform is a  _ disaster _ \-- before he snorts at his own foolishness. 

On the way back to the dugout he makes his last stop -- the most important -- and bullies (well. Terrifies, really) one of the men working for the mess into sending him back with half a kitty's worth of breakfast porridge and bacon. Blake will need food -- a lot of it. His rate of healing has stood him in good stead, but he wasn't completely back by the time he shifted and he has visibly lost weight in the transition. 

Benjamin will regret scaring the kitchen staff later, no doubt, but right now he has no patience left and he is suffering from an entirely irrational anxiety at not having his eyes on Blake. It feels very good to take out his lingering anger -- fear --  _ everything _ on someone.

Benjamin arrives back at the dugout just past seven and in a fine, foul mood. He has been awake for nearly 24 hours straight. All the blood and pills in the world won't do more than give him the energy to rip someone's throat out, now.

Entering, he is grateful that he hasn't bothered with either: Sergeant Everard is present and busy rousing the men for some task or another. Kimberley is in the selected party, looking unhappy -- Benjamin deduces at a glance that Kimberley's word hadn't been enough to persuade the Sergeant otherwise as to the necessity of his staying. But Benjamin resolutely keeps his mouth shut. The likelihood that he would say something regrettable is too high as it is. So as he heads to Blake's cot, he merely nods his thanks when he catches Kimberley's eye, and leaves it at that.

Thankfully, the Sergeant ignores Benjamin entirely and finishes his selection, leading the work party out for whatever task they're on duty to complete. Several of the men remaining see the kitty and murmur speculatively, but when Benjamin sets it next to Blake's cot and takes the time to stare at a few key whisperers, the chances of the platoon pilfering Blake's next meal drops to nothing. 

"Very nice," Farley mutters to him in approval. He has managed to evade getting selected for the work detail, Benjamin sees; sitting in the shadows next to the cot as he is, Farley is almost impossible to spot.

"Thanks ever so," Benjamin replies, peevish. His scare tactics don't work on Farley. 

Benjamin takes a moment to survey his partner instead of paying more attention to the infuriating Lance Corporal. Blake hasn't moved since Benjamin left; the Lyco is still positively gaunt from his exertions and remains wrapped in the rain slicker and blanket both. Only the fact that he is breathing betrays his continued survival. Looking at him afresh -- Good Lord, how much energy did he expend last night, that he lost  _ that _ much weight? How has Blake managed to survive this long? Benjamin resolves right then that he is going to start carrying around as many cans of bully beef as he can manage for these nights. With the way Blake fasts before a shift and how his wolf resorts to eating corpses, it is clear he needs some sort of sustenance during the shift alongside the water Benjamin offered.

Farley ignores both Benjamin's tone and the blatant pause of Benjamin's moment of observation. "Take off that mess you've made of your uniform and get some sleep," the Lance Corporal advises, interrupting Benjamin's musings. "I'll make sure no one touches his food."

Benjamin scowls at him but sees the sense in it. Benjamin is bone-tired and aching and he desperately needs sleep if he wants to be able to help Blake at all when Blake wakes up. 

(Should he even bother, though? If he were going to be clever about this, he would write to Lord Aldridge immediately and see what could be done about getting another Lyco. One who  _ won't _ turn on Benjamin during a full moon fight.)

\--Benjamin shoves that debate to the back of his mind. He is too tired to think through why that option feels so unpalatable. "How long d'you think he'll be out for?" Benjamin asks Farley instead, picking at the buckles of his webbing and all its gear. The weight off his shoulders when he lets it fall to the floor is a tremendous relief. 

Farley shrugs. "At least three more hours. You've got time."

"Right," Benjamin says. He sheds his filthy jerkin and tunic. "Wake me if he's up, yeah?" 

"Don't bite my head off when I do," Benjamin hears the man reply as he rolls into the bunk next to Blake's.

~ * ~

Joseph dreams that he wakes up after a full moon shift and, magically, there is just enough food to completely sate his horrendous appetite. It might be cold porridge and bacon, but right then, it is the greatest thing he remembers eating in his life. Best of all, he doesn't have to go looking for it himself -- it is given to him. When he is finished, the tin and the spoon are whisked out of his hands and he is allowed to rest again.

He knows this was a dream, however, because he wakes up later, head aching with painful clarity, and still hungry. He is in a cot though; that has to count for something. He sits up slowly, blinking in the low light. (Is it the afternoon?)

"Here," someone says, thrusting a canteen into Joseph's view. It's open. He can hear liquid sloshing in it -- it smells like water.

Joseph takes it gratefully. He swishes the first mouthful around and spits it on the floor to rinse out the taste of sick and . . . anything that might be left . . . and mindlessly drains half the canteen after that. He wipes his mouth and pants a little when he's done, looking around to see who is helping him.

It's Richards. Joseph has never seen him looking so disheveled: he's unshaven and in just his sweater. Everything below his waist is stained with mud. It looks as though he's only just woken, the way his hair is all flattened to one side. His eyes, normally a dark brown, are now the more-familiar red of a hungry Phage. In short, he looks ravenous. Marlow looked like that, sometimes.

Joseph tries to hide his flinch but he's not sure how good of a job he does. Richards's eyes flicker briefly, assessing. God only knows what he sees, but something about him deliberately softens in response: eyelids lowering, shoulders drooping just a fraction, neck going from perfectly aligned to slightly canted. The moment passes, and Joseph breathes.

"You're supposed to be off duty," he says.

"I'm tired, Blake, not off duty," Richards responds. It helps make him seem less terrifying, the undertone that is pure disgruntlement at being awake he says it in, the kind familiar to every soldier. 

"And hungry," Joseph comments, despite himself. 

Richards's eyes seem to glow for a moment. He averts them, breaking his gaze to look at the floor. "And hungry," he acknowledges.

"Here," someone else says, and thrusts a mess kit tin heaped with beans and -- is that pork? Real pork? -- under Joseph's nose. Joseph takes it, bemused, and sees to his surprise it is Rutherford -- one of Kimberley's mates. "Eat," Rutherford tells Joseph. "You too, Warrant Officer."

"I can wait," Richards says politely. His eyes are still red, and he does not look directly at Joseph.

Joseph frowns. "When was the last time you've eaten?" he asks, and then says "Thanks" to Rutherford, who hands him a spoon as well.

Richards waves this off. "I'll go after you're finished," he says. 

Hungry as he is, Joseph takes a moment to appraise -- seriously appraise -- his Leash. Richards is tense, yes -- his shoulders are set. He is conspicuously not looking at Joseph, nor at anyone else. 

"What time is it?" Joseph asks, and starts to eat.

Rutherford checks his watch. "It's nearly three," he says.

Joseph has never slept until three without waking earlier than that from hunger. Even when Marlow -- he shoves that thought to the side when his throat closes. Not good that Richards hasn't eaten in all that time, anyway.

The food isn't terrible, for once. Richards points out Joseph's things, retrieved from the spot where they sat together before the shift, while Joseph eats it all. He would lick the tin for the last of it, but he is stopped by Richards swapping the empty one out for another tin's worth, a wealth of food that Joseph is unaccustomed to. He only gets through half of it before he feels he is sated, but he eats it all anyway. Joseph will certainly need it.

"Please tell me this is it," he jokes, spoon dragging through the last of it. He is feeling far more alert than he ever has during a moon cycle whilst on the Front -- even whatever injuries he received last night are little more than lingering aches.

"That is the last," Rutherford answers. He is studying Joseph with interest, and Joseph shifts, uncomfortable with the unexpected scrutiny. "It's all the platoon could put together from lunch. We figured we owed it, with how Richards got you all the extra breakfast -- your usual portion got shared out."

"Porridge," Richards says succinctly, before Joseph can ask. He gets up and claps Joseph on the shoulder briefly while Joseph comes to the startling realisation that the dream he'd had was not actually a dream. "If you're feeling better, I'll leave you to it. I have some business to attend to, but I'll be back by--"

"I'll come with you," Joseph interrupts. The words are out of him before he can think twice. "Just give me a moment to put my things on." 

Both Richards and Rutherford look at him oddly. But this is something Joseph knows, at least -- you don't leave your Pack to go hunting by themselves. Richards stayed, all through the morning, waiting for Joseph to wake up so that he could see to it that Joseph ate properly. Richards stayed, putting off tending his own needs for Joseph's safety. Richards stayed, despite seeing Joseph's truest nature all last night and early this morning. 

Joseph starts dressing quickly, noting that, for once, he doesn't need to scrub down to get into his clothing. 

"You've no need--" Richards starts up, paused halfway through pulling on his own tunic.

"Of course not," Joseph interrupts again, pulling on his trousers. He can do those over his drawers, plus his shirt and suspenders -- no need for the rest of it when they're just between here and the Phages' Mess. "But I am."

Stymied -- Richards must really be hungry, if he's that perplexed -- Joseph's Leash opens his mouth to say something, but then he stops. He seems to remember he's only halfway through putting on his tunic and he starts up again, buttoning it down properly while Joseph throws on his shirt and tucks it into his trousers before slinging his suspenders over his shoulders. 

"Right," Joseph says briskly, stuffing his feet into his boots sans socks. "Let's go."

Richards holds his peace until they are outside. "You don't have to walk me there, you know," he says dryly, even as he pulls on that ridiculous sunhat he wears during the day and sets off down the trench as though he expects Joseph to follow. 

"You didn't have to stick around waiting for me to wake up and eat, either," Joseph says, peculiarly happy. Richards shakes his head -- but he makes sure he doesn't get too far ahead in the single-file trenches and keeps one shoulder tipped back towards Joseph, indicating through his posture that they are walking together.

For once, Joseph actually feels halfway decent. He is well-rested. He is full, and not hungry. And, Joseph thinks, watching Richards walking slightly ahead of him in the narrow trench --  _ Pack. _ Joseph has a Pack; Joseph has a Pack that is worth having. Whatever the rest of the moon cycle brings, he has a feeling he will do just fine with Richards around to see Joseph through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo everyone! First and foremost, shoutout to the FANTASTIC YONDERLIGHT who is AMAZING and SPLENDIFEROUS and GENERALLY A GOOD EGG! I love yonder, yonder is the BEST.
> 
> ~~As you can see from the upped chapter count, I'm going to continue this fic. Next up will be a short interlude, and then a second half of this fic that will cover Joseph & Benjamin's adventures a few months after April. However, I am taking a short break from this fic because I want to focus on the mystery wedding ghost story, the last one Pavuvu and I promised for _between the crosses!_ I am not sure when that will be ready for posting, but expect it for sure within the next two weeks :)~~
> 
> **[Edit 1/28/21: there will be a second work at a later date, but I am still unsure of its final form.]**
> 
> In the meantime! @scientistsinistral is BACK with another new chapter for their work _[take my whole life too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990692)_ \-- go check it out! Also, I heard that there's an update coming soon for @yonderlight's work -- keep your eyes peeled ;) 
> 
> Lastly! Yonder and some others (@cunninglinguist, @mangalho, @Baylardo, @thenightwindow -- and many more!) have been working on a 1917 fan zine! [PREORDERS](https://1917zine.bigcartel.com/) ARE UP -- you might want to check it out! I already placed mine but I won't lie -- that copy of Schofield's tin was a POWERFUL incentive!


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